


Gimmick

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Series: if you wanna go anywhere (I don't mind) [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1980s, 1985, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Banter, Billy Hargrove Is an Asshole, Car Sex, Character Study, Coming In Pants, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Frottage, Groping, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jossed, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Multiple Orgasms, Neck Kissing, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sequel, Slow Romance, Steve Harrington Is Confused, Teenagers, The Gate Is Closed, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: "Have you, uh, have you done this before?" His voice sounds as if he's been gargling with broken glass all morning.Billy blinks once, then scoffs.





	Gimmick

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm the worst, the ending of _Pedal_ was a compromise so that it wouldn't turn into a seven-headed monster of a thing that made little sense and satisfied no one. _Gimmick_ is meant to be a direct continuation, taking place literally five seconds after the previous instalment, and exploring some more of Steve's existential angst. I mean, there's more porn, too. Like, the first 3K is _just porn_.
> 
> I don't know either.
> 
> Fyi, I'm a long-winded bastard. I'm sorry. I swear this is, like, mostly a (very slow) romance.

Billy Hargrove is really fucking annoying.

Case in point, his head darts forward on his shoulders to nuzzle his face at the side of Steve's neck in what can only be described as eagerness. Steve grows aware he's still hunched greedily over Billy's prone body on his bedroom carpet, in the stark light of early Sunday afternoon, panting uncontrollably. He's maybe still coming down a little bit from being stoned, or from just plain coming. He shuts his eyes against a wave of aftershocks all down his spine and tingling in the tips of his fingers.

The front of his pants feels heavy with come and his thighs ache like the day after a big game. Billy's smell, something like a mix of clean sweat, fresh deodorant, expensive cologne and stale cigarettes, finally breaks through the fragrant scent of pot.

It's _a lot_.

It hits Steve's lungs like he's smoking up again, makes his hips drag slow and heavy with the mess in his underwear over Billy's own mess, eliciting a sound that's half grunt and half mewl, and which ruffles the fine hairs on Steve's neck. It settles something inside Steve's chest that's become unsettled in the last minute or so. He valiantly tries to get his breathing under control, no small feat when Billy's still nosing against his skin. It's not. It's not that annoying anymore, kind of. Kind of OK and… whatever. It makes his hips twitch and grind when Billy breathes in deeply right behind Steve's ear. He swallows against a mouth that's suddenly too wet.

He feels a swelling panic which turns into growing horror just at the thought of _slobbering_ all over Billy Hargrove. Like he has no self-control or something. He needs to get a grip.

After about a minute or a year of telling himself he needs to calm the fuck down, he feels his hands hurting, like a cramp taking hold of each, and he realises it's because he's bent his fingers towards the palm into a tight fist, holding them there like he's just waiting for a target to pound on. He releases them slowly and instantly feels better.

He also realises his dick is half-hard again. He feels it swelling like an insidious flame licking at his insides. His guts churning, he swallows around a mouthful of saliva. Billy's big hands are groping the backs of his thighs idly as he's dragging his lips along Steve's carotid artery, down and further down. Steve rocks leisurely downwards and sucks in breaths through his now open mouth. He needs to get off Billy Hargrove, like, ten minutes ago. On the next roll of hips Steve can feel their cocks dragging together. He's fully hard now, and so's Billy, and it aches to be this hard so soon after coming. He wonders if Billy feels like that, too.

Steve opens his eyes. Apparently, they've been closed since about the time he started coming down from his first orgasm. Only orgasm. Whatever. He licks his lips, and eventually raises himself up on shaky arms.

The sudden lack of proximity to a hot body is a nasty chill all down his front. It’s not even cold in his bedroom.

His eyes shoot downwards immediately. The back of Steve's throat constricts as he stares at Billy, whose eyes are already open and looking up at Steve lazily. One corner of his mouth is all crooked, like a house that's about to tumble down a hill, and his pupils are dilated. Could be from the pot, Steve tells himself. Could be loads of things.

Billy's hands start squeezing up and down the backs of his thighs. It makes Steve want to open his legs more, but he's already at his limit straddled over upper legs and thighs which are basically fucking tree trunks, Jesus Christ. What teenager looks like that? Billy's big hands grope up to frame Steve's ass and squeeze, grips Steve's hips to grind them down in a one-two motion against his own, a hard squeeze as if he wants to leave the shape of his palms imprinted on Steve's ass.

They need to seriously talk. Like, exchange words about this. Instead, Steve mewls on the next drag of his sensitive cock against the insides of his jeans. The zipper is digging in in a not entirely horrible way.

What is even wrong with him?

Steve hates talking anyway. But then he remembers he's got Billy Hargrove trying to basically hump him from below through two sets of jeans and underwear, so he makes himself huff out a, "Wait, _wait_."

Billy stops instantly with a put-upon huff. His head thuds backwards onto Steve's carpet.

And now they're just staring at each other, wordless. Steve swallows down the first thing he wants to say, which doesn't amount to more than, _Fuck, Billy, oh god._

"Have you, uh, have you done this before?" His voice sounds as if he's been gargling with broken glass all morning.

Billy blinks once, then scoffs.

"What do _you_ think, princess?"

"I don't know! Jeez. Never mind," he says, shaking his head. "Sorry I asked." The prickly blush starts unpleasantly at his temples. He doesn't know where to look now that it's weird and awkward between them.

It was weird anyway calling Hargrove "Billy" in his own head for the little while it lasted. Now he can go back to "Hargrove" without feeling the sourness of guilt in his gut, like calling Nancy "Wheeler" or some shit. In fact, he probably won't have to call him anything because it's not like there'll be a real reason to run into each other anymore, and Steve sure as hell isn't going to be _thinking_ of the asshole ever again.

Now he definitely needs to get the fuck off of him. He makes the mistake of looking down at Billy's face while deciding which is the _least_ embarrassing way of climbing out of someone's lap.

Billy's eyes are narrowed, then he looks at Steve thoughtfully for a moment, shrugs, scoffs again, but he seems to be considering his next words much more carefully. Steve stupidly waits him out.

"Yeah." A beat. Then, "I've done this before," he says levelly. "Happy, pretty boy?" he sneers. Even rolls his eyes, as if Steve's the one being a big pain.

Steve's head is reeling. _Happy_ isn't really what he's feeling. Any blood that's not rushing to his face to fuel the most outrageous blush in existence is heading south with a vengeance. He sort of chokes on his own breath for a moment there, before clearing his throat with as much dignity as he can muster. He doesn't even know why he's all blushy about it now. And mouth-breathing, if not actually panting, Jesus.

Billy smiles wide at the sound, as if it's all a big barrel of laughs. Then starts that rocking motion in his hips that could drive anyone up a wall. Steve grunts as if he just got punched.

It's still good, somehow the best kind of friction, only now Steve's thinking about how Billy's done this before, and about what else he's done. With other boys. Steve's done plenty with girls, but that suddenly sounds inadequate, if only in his own head. He has a feeling none of that's very relevant here.

As a general rule, locker room talk is probably not a good representation of reality. Steve's not stupid, contrary to popular belief, at least not about this. But he figures it all boils down to dicks, which should be obvious enough to decipher.

On the next gasp he follows up that thought with, _I know mine well enough, but everything else is brand fucking new._ It takes a barely-suppressed moan for him to decide completely coherent thoughts are just not going to happen for a while, not with his mind all cloudy, _shit_.

_Shit, shit, shit._ It hits him like a semi rolling down a hill at top speed, like a spiked baseball bat to the midsection. His cock's so hard it's leaking pre-come. Wildly, he knows Billy's must be, too.

_Fuck._

He just. Wants to take him out, wants to see it. Showering at school has always meant averting his eyes. Steve vaguely curses all the missed opportunities, but that only makes him more eager now. He might be too eager, Billy will notice for sure, but he's a bit beyond caring for the time being.

Idly, it occurs to him they could be on a bed right now. There's a bed, like, _right there_ , for the taking, but, at the same time, Steve knows in his bones how fragile this is, how likely it is to shatter if he makes the wrong move or says the wrong thing. He almost ruined it a few minutes ago, asking Billy for information that maybe wasn't easily up for grabs. The tightrope they're on is too delicate, and Steve doesn't want them to fall into the old patterns of unsatisfying banter and unresolved tension. He's sick of that shit, and touching Billy feels so much better than anything they've ever done or could ever do together.

With more daring than sense he shuffles backwards to sit on Billy's upper thighs, leaving himself room to do… whatever. Billy watches him, amused and waiting, as Steve swallows his nerves. He reaches an unsteady hand out, almost without conscious thought, in order to balance himself on a sharp hip bone.

His hands are shaking because he's never unzipped another boy's pants before. He's definitely never reached inside another boy's pants to paw at the front of his underwear. But he's doing it now, and it takes so little to get his limbs moving and following orders, to lower a zipper, to move his hand across a hard cock not his own. It's a gut-churning sort of pleasure to touch something hot and hard, the pleasure of burning up on top of another boy, and it turns him on even more to notice Billy's cheekbones reddening from one ragged breath to the next, the way he closes his eyes and bites his lip.

He mutters a lazy, quiet _baby_ underneath Steve and bats his sinfully long eyelashes when Steve squeezes his fingers experimentally. It messes with Steve's head. Billy has really fucking pretty eyes. Like, he wasn't aware boys could have eyelashes like those. He wants to lick them like a complete weirdo. When Billy opens his eyes to stare at him, Steve feels, just for a moment, as if he could ask and Billy might even say yes to that. He feels that look in his gut, and traces the length of him up and down, and up and down again, all still in his underwear, while canting his own hips to drag his cock across Billy's thigh. He really wants to take him out _to see_.

He gulps down his nerves one final time and shifts his wrist to reach under the elastic and get a fistful of Billy's cock. It's blood-hot and wet at the tip, and Steve feels as if he's losing his mind a little. He grips tighter at the hip bone under his palm and he proceeds to do that slow up and down movement that's the _worst tease_ when girls do it to him.

"Fuck yeah," Billy says in a quiet, thready voice. Steve could listen to it all day long.

It turns into Steve jerking Billy off nice and slow while humping his thigh like a dog, all of it still on his bedroom floor. It's maybe the weirdest thing he's done, like, ever, which is saying something, because _oh boy_ , does Steve know weird.

"You like doing that, pretty boy?" Billy asks between little snuffling pants. He's licking his lips compulsively; Steve knows that because he can't stop watching his pink tongue rolling around his open mouth.

"Shut up." Not his best comeback, but a worthy try under the circumstances.

The noises they're making should be more embarrassing. They'd be entirely embarrassing if anyone heard them. It's a big empty house and his parents are gone until tomorrow night, but if anyone heard them they wouldn't think they're fighting, because that's not what fighting sounds like. They'd know Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove are _fucking_.

He bites at his own lower lip, which is at most a vain attempt at self-control. The pain is so very far from enough to quench the fire in Steve's belly. Billy's hip bone is an anchor, oddly enough, because otherwise he thinks he might fly out of his own skin.

He grips Billy's cock tighter, as taut as he can make it. It's now a dark red, almost angry, colour, and when words fail him the only non-words Steve is capable of uttering anymore are wounded little mewls as he stares fixedly at his hand pumping up and down. He keeps the rhythm just that tiny bit too slow to be genuinely satisfying. In retaliation, Billy squeezes his ass cheeks that much tighter, half-guiding Steve's hips in a dirty, hard grind. _I'm gonna fucking come_ , Steve thinks.

Hysterical laughter bubbles in the back of his throat. Could be time has turned ingeniously back on itself, as if it's all one big gimmick. They were _right fucking here_ not fifteen minutes ago.

With one more hip swivel turned fervid thrust against Billy's hard thigh Steve's coming in his pants again. It's a harsh sort of pleasure, like pawing at a bruise, and he grits his teeth against the bittersweet sting of it. He feels feverish through all his nerve endings.

His hand has stopped its jerking motion on Billy's dick and it's shaking a little with the aftershocks. He leans on his other arm and consciously wills himself not to collapse. Vaguely, he suspects Billy will probably bully him into hurrying it up, any moment now.

What he doesn't expect him to do is go from prone on the floor to sitting in one precise movement. Steve loses his balance for a moment there, until Billy grabs him tightly at the waist with both arms. His face goes right for the crook of the neck, lips first. "Come on, baby," he whispers into Steve's hair. "Come _on_." He drags the consonant so sweet Steve just has to comply.

It's too tight of a space to comfortably reach for Billy's cock to stroke it with any sort of grace or elegance. Steve assumes Billy doesn't care for either grace or elegance, judging by the whines ruffling the hair at the base of Steve's neck and the breathy litany of _Harrington, fuck, shit_. Steve's still coming down, so that shit hits him right where he lives, makes him tremble and grip steadily at Billy's shoulder with his other hand. A floaty feeling engulfs him, the firmness of Billy's cock an unshakeable weight, grounding in a weird way, like holding hands across a table or some shit.

It suddenly occurs to him that he's been at it for a while now, and starts to wonder if it's any good anymore. Like, he's had handjobs from girls at parties where he just couldn't come until they added something to it. A hand on your dick should feel damn good regardless, but there is such a thing as a bad handjob that leaves you chafed and frustrated. Steve might be a lot of things, but he doesn't want to be the guy who wastes someone else's time with a bad handjob for shits and giggles. It's not self-pity, he tells himself.

Rough grunting breaths are the only noises Billy's making anymore, the wet sounds coming from between them turned way too loud. Steve wonders if he himself sounds like that when it's good, then figures he might as well check. He doesn't like wasting anyone's time.

"Is it, like, good?" he breathes out close to Billy's ear. It comes out too quiet, just shy of intimate. Like a secret.

It happens on the following beat; Billy inhales harshly, his cock in Steve's palm pulses, and next thing Steve knows the _slap slap slap_ of his hand gets even wetter with Billy's come. Steve _knows_ the tacky stickiness of it, and is momentarily disoriented by it when it's not accompanied by his own body getting wrecked. Billy shakes in his arms and squeezes his waist savagely, pants wetly at his shoulder through Steve's shirt, and maybe Steve feels a little wrecked after all.

With one last squeeze, Billy untangles his arms from around Steve's waist and gradually backs away from his shoulder. That dazed expression from before is back.

"What do _you_ think, sweetheart?" Now it's his turn to sound as if he's been gargling with broken glass. Steve shivers for no good reason at all, eyes tracking the angles of Billy's face as if he can't help himself.

They can't, like, stare at each other. There's no logical argument for it. Billy must feel it, too, because he leans back until they're connected only at the hips and through Steve's palm still steadied on his shoulder. Steve lets him go and feels weirdly deprived, left with one hand dangling in the air awkwardly and the other full of lukewarm come. It's a resounding indication that he has to finally get the fuck off. It's the better part of half an hour too late.

He gets up on one knee, then up on feet he can't really feel. Standing tall over a dazed- and satisfied-looking Billy Hargrove messes with his head a little. He combs the nerveless fingers of his left hand through his hair as Billy leans all the way back to being prone on Steve's bedroom carpet. Like the last five minutes never happened.

"Bathroom," Steve says. He has to wash his hands before he can look at Billy's face again and not blush like a virgin at prom.

He takes his time with it and tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of cold come in his pants. He avoids his own reflection in the bathroom mirror as a matter of course.

By the time he comes back to his room there's no real trace that Billy was even there to begin with. The rest of his Sunday Steve spends in a bit of a stupor. Not that unexpected, all things considered.

Monday is lacklustre, doesn't quite feel as if it's entirely real. Steve has to check the validated ticket stub in yesterday's jeans pocket twice: once while brushing his teeth and then again after breakfast. He blushes like a moron when he remembers why he threw those jeans in the laundry to begin with. His brain is processing this shit all wrong.

For the longest time, though, nothing until that long Fourth of July weekend has stood apart from the same colour everything else seems to have. Nothing's had the same impact. He's not bored with his life, as such, but he's not the same shitty person he used to be, back when it was easy to be shitty and get ahead. What he's like now, it should be easy to go back to doing more of the same thing he did last week and go through the motions and stay on course, but it doesn't quite feel like it's easy anymore to get up, get breakfast, get to work. It's a regular Monday for him, but it's not like every other Monday since graduation. His pulse ratchets up because he knows this feeling.

Steve Harrington is really fucking stupid. Like, such a _moron_.

He's maybe getting a headache thinking about it now. Joey is screaming through the open backroom door that he doesn't pay Steve to stare at walls all day, which definitely doesn't help.

He's definitely headachey and distracted. Just perfect.

"On it, Boss," he yells back, absently.

And, anyway, Billy left without a word. Steve knows how to take a hint. It only took eighteen years of his life, but now he's got it down pat.

The day drags on, slow as molasses in January. Joey works them both through lunch, then abandons ship early in the afternoon, leaving Steve to close up once he's done changing the oil on old Mrs Brown's mint-green Beetle.

Keeping busy should make the afternoon go faster, but he instead finds himself zoning out more and more often, though the headache seems to clear up nicely. He forgets to line up about half of the oil bottles he needs for the fill and almost loses count mid-way through, so that's basically the worst he's been at his job since he first started.

Yeah, Steve is _really_ fucking stupid. Like, what else is new, though?

He doesn't notice the Camaro pulling into the garage until it's too fucking late. Through the rolled-down driver's side window he can spy yet another cigarette dangling from Billy's lip, like an enticing beacon of head-fuckery. Steve would like to forestall any _further_ head-fuckery coming his way, thank you very much, so he takes the pre-emptive line of defence of being an asshole first.

"Is this really necessary?" he drawls, loudly enough to carry.

The Camaro stops cleanly three feet from him, and Billy gets out smoothly, cigarette still casually on his lip. It might be summer, but it's a crisp summer in Hawkins, Indiana, and the guy's wearing a white crop top with some fucking braided denim _thing_ at the base of his throat alongside the Virgin Mary necklace Steve's noticed each time he's set eyes on the guy. His jeans must be getting fucking tighter, too. Steve feels the headache coming back with a vengeance.

"You're cute, Harrington." He says it as if he means Steve is the very opposite of cute, and, anyway, it's one big joke regardless.

Billy Hargrove is one hundred percent an annoying asshole, and Steve might be stupid, but he's kind of tired of the same old shit packaged differently.

"That's me. I'm adorable. Are we done here, Hargrove?" he snaps. Suddenly, he's more annoyed than the situation warrants, really.

So Billy's being a pain for no apparent reason. What else is new?

Billy throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crunches it underfoot. For a moment there, Steve can almost swear _something_ that he just said hit some sort of nerve because Billy's face is _hard_. There's grey half-moons under his eyes, Steve notices idly.

Then he says, "Yeah, we're done," and half-turns back to the Camaro. Like he's about to jump back in. Like he's left the driver's door open to make a quick exit. Like that makes any sense whatsoever.

Without much input from his brain, Steve says, "What are you doing here, anyway? Didn't think I'd see you around." He means to follow it up with _this side of town_ , but he swallows the actual words, along with the lump in his throat. It would sound as if he didn't give a shit if he said the words. He'd turn it him sounding _careless_ and _bored_ , like a frustrated housewife waiting for a kiss at the door.

Billy does stop in his tracks, though, and when he turns back he looks more thoughtful than hard-edged, so maybe Steve's tone has something else underneath it instead. The heavy, loaded feeling in his stomach eases up, along with the beginnings of another headache, leaving Steve only with the heady pounding in his own chest.

"How is that any of your business, Harrington?" It sounds casually challenging to Steve's ears, but also like Billy wants an actual answer from him.

Suddenly, Steve isn't sure if he believes whether a hit or a kiss is coming, but thinks it's probably one of the two. Again. He'd believed impossible things before, like that he could genuinely protect a bunch of dipshit kids when it was objectively clear he couldn't. He doesn't know what he believes about Billy Hargrove anymore.

"Are you gonna hit me? You know, again?" he ventures.

Billy licks his lips and looks him up and down swiftly. "Not today, Harrington," though he says it as if he means not _any_ day.

"About that," he goes on while Steve's trying to process every word three times over. "That shit from last year, right after Halloween." Steve's brain is short-circuiting for the few moments before Billy says, "I shouldn't have nailed into you like that. I'm apologising or whatever," he finishes a little lamely. Considering Billy Hargrove has never sounded anything but cool within Steve's eatshot, it's a little shocking.

It also means Steve's ten times as likely to make some very poor choices.

In July in Hawkins the sun goes completely down a little after nine.

Steve has nowhere he needs to be before dark. His parents will be back probably closer to midnight than not, and it's so damn easy to have Billy drive the Camaro forward and around the back, into the area of the garage that's away from prying eyes, while Steve finishes changing the oil on Mrs Brown's Beetle. He goes to wash his hands right after and comes back to Billy sucking on his third cigarette, hands restless and eyes narrowed. Locking up takes a minute, and then they're squeezing into the backseat of the Camaro, Steve pushing hard against the memory of the last time he was inside that particular car, in that exact same place, all while Billy's pushing him around, maybe a little roughly, not at all carelessly, maybe with _too much_ purpose. It's not about the last time Steve's dragged his hands over the upholstery, not anymore.

It's about Billy's fingers glancing over his tailbone through Steve's thin shirt, Steve straddled over his lap, same as yesterday, as if that's their default now. Steve hitches his hips closer more on instinct than actual choice. He shivers at the implication, and then Billy's kissing at his mouth like a forest fire.

It feels really good, _too good_ , and Steve realises he's getting hard from it, from that alone, the pressure on his crotch not nearly enough yet. Billy Hargrove makes him hard just from licking the back of Steve's teeth and sucking on his tongue. Of course he fucking does.

They make out for far too long with Steve in Billy's lap. At one point, Billy's chanting _baby, baby, fuck, baby_ against Steve's mouth while guiding his hips to rut into his thigh, too similar to last time for Steve not to start panting like he's not getting enough oxygen to his brain. He stops Billy before he makes them come in their pants again, and then it's much slower for so long the sun's low on the horizon by the time Steve looks out the back window at the evening sky, shivering at the thought either could pop at any moment if they kept going like that.

His lips feel wet with spit, and bruised and tender, tingling from just the air in the car brushing over them. He presses his forehead to Billy's and swallows the taste of Billy's mouth like it's a treat he's been coveting. Then he backs off to breathe in deeply and maybe get his brain involved in the proceedings. He inhales and exhales levelly, tries to ignore the scent of Billy's cologne in the cramped space.

By the time he's cleared his dazed head to a degree where he's able to formulate coherent thoughts, Billy's staring up at the setting sun, his whole face a warm orange with it, blue eyes bright and standing out in his face like little beacons. Like Steve couldn't look away if he tried. He doesn't really want to anyway.

He swallows heavily, and squeezes the back of Billy's neck, and doesn't even care that he can't remember when exactly his fingers ended up combing through Billy's curls. His hands feel pleasantly cramped, as if he's been at it for a while.

"Yeah, don't do that," he mutters after a few beats of Billy staring at the evening sky over Steve's shoulder.

"Do what?"

" _That._ You're freaking out." Billy's frowning too much for someone who's been parking for more than a couple of hours and whose dick feels hot and heavy brushing against Steve's own. At the words, his eyes shift to Steve's.

"I'm not freaking out."

"Really now? Just… don't, uh, whatever. This isn't. Uh." He can't deal with Billy's shit on top of his, which is maybe unfair, but he just _can't_. Not until he gets his own shit together. He sighs, and Billy frowns harder.

"Isn't what?" he asks, voice hard.

"Isn't a reason for you to freak out." Steve chooses his words carefully and hopes his tone is placating rather than challenging. He hasn't yet figured out what sets Billy off most times.

It does the trick, though. He can feel a lot of the tension in the body beneath his leave from one breath to another. Billy noses his way to Steve's neck on the next beat, dragging his face up and down, and back up again, in a shivery caress.

"At least no one's dying, right?" Steve mumbles in a distracted sort of voice.

"What?" Billy sounds genuinely confused now, but not enough to stop.

"What?" Steve parrots back. Hysterical laughter bites at his vocal chords. _At least we don't have to watch out for an Eldritch Abomination trying to make us into lunch._

It isn't funny. But the Gate is _closed_. Billy makes another confused noise, but seems to let it go easily enough right after. Steve doesn't know what it means that Billy's maybe getting used to Steve's bullcrap, ostensibly. And not punching him, which Steve's always for.

At least there's no potential for anything being literally set on fire.

They each unbutton their own jeans and trade sloppy handjobs, by the end making a mess of Steve's shirt and Billy's stomach underneath that stupid crop top of his. Steve rests his forehead against Billy's after, and absently fingers the Virgin Mary medallion like a good-luck charm, which it might just be in more ways than one. His lips sting something awful, and he can't stop touching them to Billy's mouth every other beat, noses bumping lightly.

_Where is this going?_ is a great question. But if Steve can't answer it, it doesn't make sense to vomit it all over Billy. That'll only lead to the sort of awkward silence which precludes any more handjobs and heavy kisses. Instead, Billy's probably going to leave Steve in a heap by the side of the road while he drives away, out of Steve's boring fucking life.

Put like that, it's tempting to silently kiss him some more and avoid any words whatsoever.

Surprisingly enough, it's Billy who breaks the silence. The sun is a thin line at the edge of the horizon. It must be nearing nine o'clock.

"Let me drive you home, pretty boy," he mutters against Steve's jawbone. It's not beseeching, but Steve hears a note of something urgent beneath the actual words.

Steve has his own car parked out front, though.

He lets Billy drive him home.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA March 30th '19: I'm sort of back on [this Hellsite](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/). If you wanna chat or whatever. You do you. <3


End file.
